


sing

by hudders-and-hiddles (LeslieWrites)



Series: tempting fate [3]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anniversary, Developing Relationship, Early Days, Fluff and Smut, Gifts, M/M, POV David Rose, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25131331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeslieWrites/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles
Summary: Patrick gives David a three-month anniversary gift.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: tempting fate [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719394
Comments: 32
Kudos: 240





	sing

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final part of a series about their first three monthly anniversary gifts. Reading the first two parts isn't necessary, but this one specifically references things from the second fic, [savor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24151912), so I would recommend at least reading that one if you haven't already.

“I’m breaking up with you,” David says as soon as Patrick has turned the lock behind their last customer, and Patrick looks around at him in surprise while David does a terrible job of arranging his face into something admonitory. The trouble is that he’s feeling far too fond at the moment for his features to fully cooperate with the lie.

Patrick can clearly sense it, the way a predator can sense weakness in their prey, and saunters across the room to where David still stands in front of the cash. His hands find the counter on either side of David’s hips, boxing him in, and David suppresses the little jolt of electricity that tries to zip down his spine when he leans in close. He can smell the clean, crisp scent of Patrick’s cologne—one they sell here in the store that David had finally convinced him to try. 

“And why exactly are you breaking up with me?”

David’s gaze drops to Patrick’s lips, where his tongue slips out to wet them. “I, uh, I told you that I’d— that if you ever made me listen to someone sing at me, I’d break up with you. And then you sang at me. And I’m— I-I’m a man of my word.” He knows this conversation would be more effective if he could stop staring at Patrick’s mouth. His beautiful, pink mouth that’s even more talented than David had realized.

“That’s such a shame,” Patrick says, his voice barely more than a whisper. He pushes even closer, until David can feel the words across his lips. “Because I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

David holds his breath, waiting, his fingers trembling with anticipation.

“But if we’ve broken up…” 

Patrick steps away with a grin, slipping around the counter and into the back room, and David is following him without even realizing that he’s moved, his body lunging after Patrick of its own accord. He manages to reach out and catch Patrick’s wrist, spinning him back around, where he crowds David against the wall, twining their fingers together and pinning his hand above his head. When the other reaches out for Patrick’s waist, he captures that one, too, and  _ oh, _ that’s an excellent idea. David’s feet slip farther apart, and Patrick steps into the familiar space it leaves for him between David’s knees, stopping with a few frustrating inches of space still between them. His mouth is so tantalizingly close. If David surged forward, he could devour it, but he wants that mouth to come to him.

“Are we still broken up?” Patrick asks.

“Yes,” David says because Patrick had done exactly what David had said not to. Patrick had made him stand there while someone sang to him—while Patrick sang to him—and he’d chosen this day to do it even though David had been adamant that he didn’t want any more monthly anniversary gifts. Patrick had sung to him for their three month anniversary, in front of a whole room full of other people no less, and it had been beautiful and sweet and everything that David had said he didn’t want, and he’s terrified—frightened right down into the marrow of his bones—of what it had meant to him.

Patrick shakes his head.

“That’s too bad,” he says, and  _ god, _ David wants Patrick to take him apart. “I only kiss guys I’m dating.” He shifts so that one hand is holding both of David’s against the wall, the other coming down to brush against his neck, fingers slipping back into his hair, thumb rasping along the sculpted line of his jaw. “How can I possibly apologize?”

“Kiss me,” David pleads.

“I would.” He brushes his thumb across David’s lips, and David has to close his eyes against the sensation. “But we’re not dating.” 

He’s such a tease. He’s a tease, and David hates him. He hates him with every single electrified cell in his body. Patrick drags his frustrating tease of a mouth along David’s cheek, pulling away just before he reaches David’s lips.

“If you don’t kiss me right now, I really am going to break up with you.” He tries to glare, but Patrick only grins. They’re both very aware of who’s in control of this situation.

“Tell me,” Patrick says, tilting David’s chin up so he can drag his lips across the stubbled, tender skin beneath. “Tell me,” he says again, his nose tracing up the curve of David’s jaw to breathe the words into his ear.

“I take it back.” David gasps as Patrick’s teeth graze his earlobe. “We’re not broken up. I take it back.”

“Good.” Then Patrick’s lips are finally on his, open and messy and wet, his tongue sneaking out to brush against David’s in teasing little licks. David rolls his hips forward, seeking pressure, seeking heat, and Patrick laughs into the kiss. It’s rude. He’s so rude, laughing at David while he kisses him, laughing and angling his hips just far enough away that the waves rolling through David’s body can’t reach him, laughing and pressing David’s hands harder against the wall above his head so that he can’t reach out and drag Patrick’s hips back to meet him. He’s so fucking rude, and David hates him, hates him so much for all his teasing, for that horrifyingly beautiful song that he’s just sung to him in front of half the town, hates him enough to have realized that the exact opposite is in fact true, that he’s crazy, head-over-heels, truly and completely fucked for this infuriating tease of a man who is so rudely laughing at him while kissing him breathless.

David whines, and Patrick’s rude and talented mouth only laughs more, sliding down to kiss happily along the column of his neck, to nip at his adam’s apple, to lick into the dip at the base of his throat. It’s absolutely infuriating and so incredibly perfect. “Your fucking mouth,” David breathes, and he can feel Patrick’s guilty smile against his skin.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, coming up to look David in the eye, his own dark with hunger. David makes the mistake of glancing down at his mouth again, pinkened and slick, and it grins at him knowingly. He can feel Patrick watching him watching his mouth, and Patrick uses it to echo his own words back at him. “Do you want my fucking mouth?”

A shock like lightning forks along his ribs, and David briefly wonders if anyone has ever had an aneurysm from dirty talk or if he’ll be the first case the coroner has ever seen. “Yes,” he says, nodding furiously, “god, yes,” and Patrick is pulling him over to the little sofa they’d put back here for nights exactly like this, pushing him down into the cushions as he drops to his knees between David’s feet.

David pulls his sweater over his head as Patrick’s hands find his belt. With a collaborative effort, they get his pants and his trunks down past his knees, and Patrick grabs his hips to pull them to the edge of the seat where he can easily kiss the sharp rise of his hip bones, the soft swell of his stomach, the delicate stretch of his inner thighs. It’s so gentle, so reverent. So much. Too much, even, because Patrick had sung to him tonight on their three month anniversary, had told him and half the town how he feels, and now here he is kissing David like he’s something to be worshipped, venerated, treasured, and it’s too fucking much. “Patrick,” he begs, one shaking hand stretching out to catch in his hair, and thank god, Patrick knows exactly what he needs. That sweet, teasing mouth slips over the head of David’s cock, finally, finally, sliding down as far as Patrick can go and engulfing David in glorious relief.

Everything else melts away. The rest of the night, his anxieties, this mess of feelings knotted in his throat, it all disappears. There is only this. Only Patrick’s mouth, working him in the long, steady pulls that David loves, his hand coming up to work in tandem. David watches the rhythmic bob of Patrick’s head. Watches the heat blooming like wildflowers scattered across that patch of skin between the open buttons of his shirt. Watches the way his cheeks hollow with each tight drag of his lips. He’s so fucking beautiful, and David could never in a hundred lifetimes get tired of watching him like this.

It’s like Patrick knows—knows that David is watching him—and because he’s such a tease, he lets David’s cock slip from his mouth, catching his eye as he licks a long stripe up the underside instead, his tongue coming up again to lick delicately at the slit. His hands make deft work of the buttons of his own shirt, pulling it from his shoulders to reveal all that beautiful, soft, flushed skin as his tongue swirls around and around the wet tip of David’s cock, maddeningly light, and David's fingers clench against the urge to rock his hips up and watch himself disappear between Patrick’s lips again. But Patrick knows—knows the way he always knows because he’s gotten so very good at reading what it is that David wants—and he pulls off just long enough to rasp out, “Do it,” and David doesn’t need telling twice, both of his hands winding their way into Patrick’s hair, his hips rolling in short, even strokes, fucking shallowly into Patrick’s gorgeous, pink, talented mouth. It’s not enough, not enough contact to get him off, but it’s so fucking hot, and he punctuates each thrust with a needy little grunt. 

Patrick is grinning when he comes up again for air. “God, David, the sounds you make,” he says around the heave of his breath, and then he’s back in control, his hand and his mouth working together to take David in deep, and  _ fuck _ when did he get so god damn good at this, and David’s legs quake as all the heat that’s built in his belly rushes down to pool in the cradle of his hips. Patrick tightens his grip, makes his mouth a little firmer, and stars begin to burn behind David’s eyelids, bright and hot, their breath and the slick sound of Patrick’s mouth growing louder in the tiny room, and when Patrick picks up the pace, David groans. 

“Just like that,” he whispers, “fuck, just like that,” teetering right on the edge, every nerve in his body electric and singing, and then he’s coming, hard, with tremors that jolt through him from head to toe.

For a few blissed out seconds, he forgets where he is, but the clink of Patrick’s belt buckle brings him back to reality. His arms are heavy but he manages to bring them to Patrick’s hips to help push down his jeans and his boxer briefs, eager to get his hands on Patrick’s beautiful cock. It’s flushed and hard, the head shiny and slick, and Patrick’s hips stutter forward when David wraps his fingers around it. “I’m not—” Patrick says, as David’s hand starts to move in slow, twisting, torturous strokes, “I’m not gonna last long.”

“Good.” David smirks up at him. “Put your hands on the wall.”

It takes Patrick a second to understand what David means, but David sees the realization dawn in the droop of his head, hears it in the shake of his breath, before he finally does as he’s asked, leaning forward over David to splay his hands against the wall above the sofa. It makes it feel like Patrick’s surrounding him, caging him in, over him and around him, everywhere. David lies back into the cushions again and switches to the short, tight pulls he knows Patrick likes best. There’s the shallow pant of Patrick’s breath. The slight pump of his hips in time with the movement of David’s fist. The crinkle across the brow of his nose as he squeezes his eyes shut tighter and the tremble in his thighs and the faint sheen of sweat across his chest, the skin there licked pink with heat. It’s gorgeous. He’s gorgeous like this, breathless and wild, lost in the moment. “Come for me,” David says, meaning come on me, and Patrick pries his eyes open again as David moves his hand faster, watching David watching him, and David bites his bottom lip just as his thumb slips over the wet head of Patrick’s cock, and then Patrick’s coming, striping David’s chest with it, a loud, desperate groan of relief hovering in the air. “Fuck,” David says, a little breathless with wonder because it’s not always like this. “That was—” And then Patrick’s kissing him, messy and breathy and open, kissing him like it’s been years and not minutes since their lips last met, his fingers gliding along David’s jaw, urging him closer, and David follows, surging up to meet him, deepening the kiss. David loves that Patrick’s like this after sex, all greedy and insatiable, like fucking isn’t enough, like he wants every single thing that David could possibly give, like he could somehow kiss his way down into David’s chest and witness the very beating of his heart. It makes David feel wanted in a way he’s still not quite used to, in a way he’s never felt with anyone else. 

Still, the come on his chest is cooling uncomfortably, so he gentles Patrick’s kisses until he can finally pull away. “Ummmm…” he says, looking down at himself. Patrick’s gaze follows his, and that horrible, rude mouth of his starts to laugh. It laughs against David's lips as it kisses them again, buoyant and joyful, and David knows that Patrick isn't laughing at him. He knows because Patrick had sung him a song on their three month anniversary, professing himself in front of half the town, and then sucked him off in the back room of their store. He knows because Patrick never laughs at him—except maybe sometimes when he's being ridiculous, and David knows from the warmth still simmering in Patrick's eyes that he doesn't find this moment with David ridiculous at all.   
  
"You look..."   
  
"Sticky?" David offers, and then he's laughing, too, because it is a little ridiculous actually, but ridiculous in the best way. In the pants around your ankles, come drying on your chest, awkwardly lying on the sofa in the back room of the store you own with the man you’re not quite ready to tell you’re in love with him kind of way.   
  
"I was gonna say fantastic, but sure, sticky works, too." Patrick stands up, pulling his jeans up again, and grins at him, the twist of his lips full of something promising. "We gotta get you cleaned up," he says. "I'm not done with you yet."

_ No, _ David thinks.  _ We’re not going to be done for a long, long time. _

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as [wild-aloof-rebel](http://wild-aloof-rebel.tumblr.com) (my Schitt's Creek blog) or [hudders-and-hiddles](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com) (my main).


End file.
